


If Dean and Bela met in Hell

by Dippy (tinydipper)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hell, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 21:58:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinydipper/pseuds/Dippy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The title pretty much sums it all up. This is a little headcanon of mine derived from evidence in the show. Just a heads-up; when it says graphic depictions of violence I really mean graphic depictions of violence. Very detailed torture going on here; if that's a trigger to anyone, please don't read this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Dean and Bela met in Hell

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this quite a while ago to a prompt of Dean's adventures in Hell. So, enjoy.

Dean’s arm was raised above his head. What was holding it there was a deep hook, something that Dean thought would be used for whale fishing if anyone ever attempted to catch one on a line. It was skewered menacingly between the two bones in his forearm, blood seeping out of the gaping wound. It had begun to pull up on the tissue it skewered from the gravity that seemed to work only too well in hell, leaving a widening gap beneath it. The longer he hung there, the more the blood flowed. Other than that, his remaining limbs were unharmed for the moment, and he could reach the polished slate metal floor below him with his toes. He swung on it precariously, feeling the waves of pain wash over him with each motion. He tried to steady the pendulum of his body, but his attempts were essentially fruitless. He heard voices float faintly from the dark hallway directly opposite him. He could feel the thick green and black fog circling overhead. The voices grew louder. One was distinctly female, posh, delicate, confident. English. Definitely English. An international hell, thought Dean, huh. He could hear footsteps enter the room and come to a halt in front of him. He kept his face down, still floating through the pain that soared from his arm. You would think that pain would become bearable if you’ve been through enough of it, but this ideology is false. It always hurts. It hurts as much as the first stab does, as much as the first broken bone does. It becomes familiar, yes, but the pain always manages to swell and consume you.  
“Look up, Dean,” said a gruff, smiling voice from in front of him. His eyes sauntered upwards, the world spinning softly. He locked eyes with a stocky, blond-headed man. His eyes were sparkling blue, and his suit a striking red in the murky air.  
“There’s someone special here to see you, Dean,” he said, “someone you are...” he grinned, “familiar with.”  
Dean grunted. His mind was swimming too unpleasantly to care. He moaned.  
“Dean?” came the voice from the doorway. There was a quick succession of bare footsteps that came towards him. A pale face hovered in front of his, “Dean?” she said again. She looked at the demon Baal who had brought her in. “This? This is my first? This?” Her voice was cool and demanding. And familiar.  
Bela Talbot reached a delicate hand up to Dean’s face. She didn’t touch it, but it quivered above his cheek for a moment. When Dean’s eyes focused, he could clearly see that she was as ragged and worn as he was.  
“The first time’s always the most memorable,” chirped Baal, “and besides, I’m meant to make this a living hell for you, no?”  
Bela quivered. Dean wondered why she was all pent up about torturing him. He thought she would jump at the chance.  
Baal rattled a surgical tray over to Bela’s side. Dean was strikingly familiar with all of its contents. The array of knives, syringes, acids, grates, needles, nails, and beyond, was horrifying. Dean knew each instrument intimately, the hundreds, thousands, of ways to use them, how each one felt when applied in a certain way.  
Baal began to walk back to the hallway and its beyond that Dean had never seen. He turned his head and said nonchalantly over his shoulder, “Remember, Bela dear, if you don’t do this,” another trademark toothy grin, resembling something between a shark and a shady car salesman, “you’re going back up on the hook yourself.”  
And with that, Bela and Dean were alone with the torture rack. Dean could hear her short breaths. He cracked a grin, just a delicate twitch in the corner of his mouth, displaying a momentary glint of tooth. “Go ahead,” he croaked, “have a field day, sister. It’s on me.”  
￼She sniffed, “A good few years ago, I wanted to slice you up so badly you couldn’t tell tongue from eye.” She reached down slowly and wrapped her fingers around a rusty scalpel, “But I had time to think, Dean. And now, I know that I deserved how you treated me. I realized that, I can sympathize. And then I thought, hey. I’m going to be here for aeons. I might as well give in now, because I’m going to eventually, right?” she looked down and shook her head, emitting a sour chuckle, “I am positively shocked that I made it this long. I should be given a medal.”  
“Well, Bela, darling, here’s a fun fact.” Dean spat, “When I took the ride down, which was about a month or so ago, you had only been hellside a year.”  
She frowned at him, “One year?”  
“Yup.”  
“Huh,” Bela nodded.  
She slashed the scalpel violently through the air across his face. It was a clean cut from his cheekbone to his lips. The blood seeped from it steadily.  
“You know, I had forgiven you,” said Bela, “but that attitude won’t get you far in the corporate workplace, Dean.”  
She pressed the scalpel gently against his chin, and tilted his head up to hers. Their noses touched and her eyes flitted to his lips. She traced the scalped from his jawline to his collarbone. The blood began to pour.  
“How’s darling Sammy?”  
Dean flinched. Bela chuckled.  
“Oh, doing well, is he?”  
She sliced him across his chest. She smiled to herself and sliced through his shirt, and peeled it from his body. She sliced from the middle of his chest down to his navel. Deep. He grunted. “Hmm,” she sang, “doesn’t seem to have much effect on you, my dear. You’re strong.” she said mockingly. She put the scalpel down gingerly on the table and searched for a new instrument. Her fingers hovered eagerly over them, searching for the perfect utensil. She reached down and selected a small grater, something that looked like it would be used for heavy duty wood sanding. She plucked a small, noxious green bottle from the lower tray as well. She held up the two instruments by her face and smiled widely.  
“Let’s start with somewhere a bit less tender, shall we? Call it my one lick of mercy.” She pressed the grater into Dean’s shoulder and rubbed vigorously. He hissed.  
“Oh, baby, don’t cry. This is only the beginning.”  
The rubbing created a noticeable crater in Dean’s flesh, and it burned. It bled and it burned. This was nothing new, Alastair had used this technique before. On other places. But he hadn’t done what was coming next.  
Bela trickled the substance from the bottle into his gaping wound. The drops heightened the burning to an excruciating level. Dean could faintly see steam rise from it. He smelt his own flesh melting away. He looked slightly at it out of the corner of his eye. It bubbled, foamed, and began to crust viciously. Bela smiled and trickled more into the wound.  
“It’s only just begun” she sang, and then laughed throatily. She rubbed the grater against the soft flesh on his lower stomach. It came away easy. She scraped her way down to the muscle underneath. Her hands were drenched in his blood. White lights sprung in front of his eyes from the pain. A bone in his arm that he was dangling from cracked. The hole had reached a good two inches in diameter. She splashed more acid into the wound on his stomach. He screamed. Not a low, growling howl that he usually exclaimed, but a high, piercing, almost feminine shriek. Bela grinned her cheshire cat grin. She opened more of his flesh, along his back, his thighs, his inner arms, his neck, his shins (you could see the white bone glinting through, and she even grated to the marrow through that), and finally, when he was stripped, burnt from head to toe, rubbed raw, and more tired and in pain than he thought he had ever been in his life (and he’d been pretty tired and in pain before), she scraped away his pretty face, and poured the acid into his eyes, nose and mouth. As Dean swallowed the volatile liquid, the world faded at the edges and  
went black. There, hanging from that whale hook, at the hand of Bela Talbot, Dean Winchester died for over the thousandth time.  
Baal came from the hallway and stood behind Bela. He wasn’t smiling. Bela stared blankly at Dean. She tilted her head to one side and said, “You know, I almost feel sorry. I really do. But at the same time, I feel... fantastic.” she grinned something similar to Baal’s untrustworthy trademark.  
“Good,” he whispered, placing his hand on her shoulder, “good, darling. You’re almost there already. On your first kill even. This could be a record. I should make you a medal.”  
Bela continued to smile. As she did, a kind of darkness, power and flame, welled up inside of her. She began to giggle, and soon it became an open guffaw. When she looked at the demon Baal, her eyes were a glimmering onyx.


End file.
